Thy brother, with a thousand too,
Methinks is pretty well to do:
And then thy Son, that hopeful sprig,
Five hundred hath to laugh and jig.
So thou hast feathered well thy nest,
And now canst giggle with the best.
But sometimes, Rowland! cast a thought,
On those by labour overwrought;
Nor crimp them of their scanty pay,
That thou mayst revel with the gay;